Our spring days
by PK Samurai
Summary: [AU] They would be with him for as long as he lived - their spring days.
1. Prologue in a cold land

**A/N: **This fic borrows heavily from Zankyou no Terror and Natsume Yuujinchou, but knowledge of neither series is necessary. This is basically a slice of life, with some action, drama and mystery thrown in. Hope you enjoy it.

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><p><strong>Prologue in a cold land<strong>

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><p><em>Crunch, crunch.<em>

As they made their way to the chairlift, their heavy boots broke crisply through the fresh sheets of snow. It was still lightly snowing, so the outlines of the footprints they left behind grew fainter by the second.

They had arrived by railway just a few hours prior. It was a remote, sleepy little town out in the far reaches of Hokkaido, and they had been the only ones to get off at the station.

The ski lodge (which was, perhaps, an overly generous title for it) was on a remote little mountain. It was comprised of a little inn with two rooms - run by an elderly woman who seemed to have a fondness bordering on obsessive for sheepskin - and a solitary rickety old chairlift that looked like it could barely have lifted two people at a time even in its _better_ days.

They got on a chair separately, each swinging the snowboards they had bought in town over on one foot.

Thankfully, the way was well-lit with naked fluorescent lighting. Looking down at the increasingly distant white ground below, one of them let out a whoop of exhilaration - which quickly turned into a shout when a gust of wind suddenly blew in their faces, sending their chairs creaking in alarm.

The other let out a snarky laugh, which earned him a sour snap back in response.

When they reached the top of the mountain, they stood up on their boards and slid smoothly off the chair. Sliding to the start of the slope, they pulled down their ski goggles over their faces.

"Last one down gets a face full of snow," said the shorter one, leaning over to fasten his boot straps.

"And snow poured down their back," said the other, tightening his gloves.

"Promise me you won't try and pull some dirty tricks again. Let's do this fair and square for once."

"No such promises will be made."

Finished preparing, they straightened and grinned at each other for a moment. It was quiet, except for the sound of the swirling waves of snow that knocked relentlessly against their thick coats and ski pants.

And then simultaneously, they kicked off, their afterimages left behind like pale ghosts that, in the blink of an eye, dissipated in the wind.

* * *

><p>There were once twenty of them.<p>

Some had been taken from orphanages, and had been little missed. Others had been taken from their custodial guardians, mostly parents, and the reactions there were a bit more varied.

They were raised in an isolated institute they only knew as the Settlement. For five, six long years, their minds and bodies were subject to experimentation and mutated. They were changed to something unnatural, something that hadn't been in their original directive upon birth.

Not all of them survived the treatments. In fact, most of them didn't. One by one, they disappeared, the last indication of their having walked the earth a bold 'X' across their file.

In the end, only two made it into the living world. They didn't have names, not yet, but they did have numbers that had once been assigned to them. One was 'Two' and the other was 'Eighteen.'

* * *

><p>The house they were searching for was a ways out from the main road. As such, they put their new boots to good use, wading through several feet of heavy white snow. The faint light of dawn crept at the backs of their shoulders. It was a long, still hour, punctured only by an occasional sneeze.<p>

Finally, in the middle of what could very well be argued as the middle of nowhere, Eighteen came to a sudden stop. He pointed a stiff finger at something in the distance. "Is that it?"

Two squinted, but all he could make out through the frost fogging up his glasses was the faint outline of what could have been a house. "It might be. Can you see a nameplate?"

Eighteen paused, his curious amber eyes sharpening into focus. "It says...Furu...ya. I think."

"That's the one."

With more purpose, they began to approach the house. As they drew closer, it became more and more obvious that it was the residence of a modern-day hermit. There were no telephone poles or any obvious paths anywhere within the vicinity of the house. The roof was covered with snow, but from the unnatural glinting of metal here and there, it was apparent that there were solar panels stretched out across it.

But none of that was their business. They were here to deliver something, and once that was done, they would leave.

By the time they had reached the gates of the house - the distance, covered in a blanket of uniform snow, had been misleading - the sun in its entirety had almost crossed the finish line of the horizon. Now that they were close, Two could also read the name _'Furuya'_ that hung proudly beside the low gate door.

Without any preamble, he pulled off his backpack and took out the object they had come all the way out to such a remote location for. He handed it to Eighteen, who carefully rolled it up. Then, taking several steps back, he ran toward the gate and nimbly, in one powerful motion, swung himself over to the other side.

Moving to the backside of the property, Two waited patiently outside. Soon after, however, there was an unmistakably familiar and loud sneeze from inside the gates, followed immediately by the barking of a dog.

"What's wrong, Hachi?" came a deep voice from inside the house. The dog continued to bark loudly. "Calm down girl. I'm going to check outside now." With a rattle, the gate opened, and an elderly grey-haired man poked his head out warily. After a moment, he noticed the footprints they had left behind, and his wariness gave way to alarm. He slammed the gate shut, crying out, "Who's there?!"

The only response was the resonance of the metal gate, still vibrating in the cold air.

"I have nothing here. It's just me and Hachi here. There's nothing to steal except some rice and fish. If that's what you're after, then just take it and..." The voice trailed off into nothing.

Still hidden at the back, Two mindlessly wished - not for the first time - that his eyesight wasn't so poor. However, he did not have to wait long, as a short while later, the gate door opened again. The old man stepped fully out this time, one hand firmly holding on to the collar of a thick-coated husky. His other hand was wrapped around something.

"Thank you," he called out hoarsely to what seemed like no one in particular. "For letting me know."

When the gate door closed shut, there was a dark blur above him, and then Eighteen was kneeling beside him in the snow. His hands were empty.

"Sorry, Two," he apologized. "Couldn't hold that one back."

"Never mind that. What was his reaction?"

"Burst into tears. It was cute." Eighteen stuck out his tongue. "Must be hard, being practically blind and all."

"I hear midgets have it worse," Two smirked back.

Picking their way through the snow, they began to wade back to the main path, which they would follow all the way back to town. They had left behind their snowboards and other equipment at the ski lodge, but they planned on directly taking the first train out. They were always doing that - leaving things behind. They hoped the elderly woman at the lodge would have the sense to use them as rentals for future lodgers.

Back in the house, the old man looked down at the slip of paper for a long time, his lined hand tightly clutching a worn-down old baseball to his chest. There were only two lines, written in solid black ink on a starkly white space:

_Furuya Satoru  
><em>_07/01/20x__x - 12/21/20xx_

Once upon a time, they had simply known him as 'Eleven.'

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><p>Not everyone of the twenty had someone left behind to remember them. Some were orphans, some had only a few relatives who had already died before they could reach them, and the rest were simply unwanted.<p>

For each one who could not find a resting place, they carved their number on a black monk bracelet that they wore at all times, so that the others might live for as long as they did. The bead reserved for 'Eleven' was left mercifully blank.


	2. Meeting spring 1

**Meeting spring 1**

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><p>Kominato Haruichi was an only child. However, he could vaguely remember a time when he had had an older brother. Or rather, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he remembered the aftermath of said brother's disappearance.<p>

From between the thin slats of his crib, he learned at a young age what it meant to watch his mother cry and the implications of heavy, unchanging silence. He also felt an odd sensation of loss that he only recognized later, when he accidentally stumbled across an old, faded photo in which he was being held by what appeared to be an older version of him.

Haruichi had always been a small boy. Given the genes he had inherited from his parents, he knew this was a fact he would have to put up with for as long as he lived. He was also frail, and possessed what some would call a pretty face. Working hand-in-hand with his innately timid nature, he was given hell for it when he was young, during a period of time in which children were ignorantly cruel.

Some people never do learn to grow out of their cruelty, but Haruichi quickly learned that the best method for dealing with bullies was by shutting himself off from it. When they kicked or pulled at his hair, he simply stood still, keeping his face blank and his body stiff like a mannequin. This bored all but the most persistent, and over the years, the bullying stopped. Haruichi's bruises faded and he was finally, blissfully, alone.

The detrimental side effect of this coping method was that even those with the best of intentions were hesitant to approach him. The few who did manage to breach his immediate perimeter found themselves driven away by his personal brand of frankness, a habit that should have softened from repeated breakage against the rocks of friendship, but had instead hardened and solidified over his years of solitude.

Most of Haruichi's days were spent either at school, or at home, where he watched TV or played games. He did not join any club activities, for the very notion of being forced to interact with strangers made him feel sick to the stomach. When his parents expressed concern, he assured them that he was fine, and that no, he did not need to meet a therapist.

For it was true – Haruichi was not depressed. At least, he didn't think so. He didn't feel attracted to the idea of burning, slit wrists or feel any particular inclination towards the dark recesses of death. However, he did sometimes feel that he would not have minded if he had never been born into such a world.

This, he also felt, was probably something everyone felt in their lives at one point or another.

* * *

><p>One week into the spring semester of his second year of high school, rumors began to spread about a new transfer student. Such rumors were always exciting and sometimes groundless, but a few days later, they were indeed, proven true.<p>

Halfway through homeroom, while Mr. Kataoka was writing something on the board, the door suddenly slid quietly open to reveal a strange boy Haruichi had never seen before. Dressed rather sloppily in the school uniform, he was of average build and below-average height. He had messy brown hair and would not have stood out in any crowd, if it weren't for the deep amber color of his eyes. Haruichi idly wondered if he were wearing colored lenses.

The boy might have been able to successfully sidle into the empty seat – the seat directly behind Haruichi's – if the class hadn't suddenly started whispering in hushed tones.

Mr. Kataoka turned around and immediately zoned in on the boy.

"What are you doing?" he asked slowly, his tone tinged with disbelief.

"Hello sir," said the boy, straightening up and throwing his schoolbag over his shoulder. He was wearing a monk bracelet on his right hand. "I'm the new transfer student."

"Sawamura Eijun?"

"That's me!" He sounded pleased, and this must have thrown off Mr. Kataoka, for he didn't punish him with prolonged exposure to his steely gaze, as he might have to any other latecomer.

"Come up to the front then, and say a proper greeting to your new class."

Cheerily, Sawamura wrote his name down on the board – 'Sawamura' written the usual way, and 'Eijun' written with 'prosperity' and 'purity' – and zipped through his introduction. As Haruichi had expected, Mr. Kataoka directed Sawamura to the seat behind his.

What he had not expected, however, was the teacher calling his name afterward. "Kominato?"

Haruichi blinked, taken aback, before responding with a soft, "Yes?"

"I'm putting you in charge of taking Sawamura around the school grounds on his first day here." Mr. Kataoka then turned his back to the class, and resumed writing on the chalkboard in his usual no-time-wasted manner.

Haruichi blankly looked down at his notes for a full minute, before picking up his pencil again. Just as he did so, however, he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he saw a pair of curious, amber eyes. Haruichi almost jumped in his seat.

"What's your name?" asked Sawamura.

"Ko…Kominato Haruichi."

"Haruichi…written with 'spring'?"

Haruichi hesitantly nodded.

Wearing an intrigued expression on his face, Sawamura propped his head against his hand. Through the shadow of his bangs, Haruichi hadn't been able to make it out before, but now, he could see that there were numbers engraved on the other boy's monk bracelet.

Before he could make any of them out however, without any warning, Sawamura's face suddenly split into a wide, dazzling grin. "I thought so. You sound like spring."

* * *

><p>'Haruichi,' written with the characters for 'spring' and 'fair.' As could be predicted, he had been brought into the world on the first morning of March. His name was a quiet, but joyous, celebration of spring, a time when the air was thick with flushed sakura petals that could stop the heart of any passersby with the will to simply stop and listen.<p> 


	3. Cicadas at dusk 1

**Cicadas at dusk 1**

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><p>During lunchtime, Two found himself leaning against the railing on the school building rooftop. Below, dots that signified other students scurried around the courtyard, but he turned his attention upward to the sky.<p>

It was late April, which meant that relative to the earth, the sun was around a celestial longitude of 30 degrees. Soon, the sun would be shining directly on the northern hemisphere, inducing the phenomenon known as 'summer' for those in the area.

He heard a sucking sound, and felt his mouth turn upwards in a crooked smile.

"I told you not to attract so much attention," he said, turning around. "I heard the teachers talking about you."

Eighteen stood in front of the doorway, sucking at the straw of an orange carton. It was likely carrot juice, Eighteen's favorite drink, but the other boy was standing too far away to tell.

"Look who's talking," Eighteen scoffed. "There were a bunch of girls talking about you. Yoshikawa Haruno and Natsukawa Yui from class 2-B seemed especially excited about you, and Aotsuki Wakana from class 2-D was asking after your mail address. Maezono Kenta from class 2-D was also asking about you, but I don't think it was your number he wanted."

"You don't have to remember all their names," said Two.

"Yeah, yeah." Eighteen joined him by the railing, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. As always, his eyes eagerly searched their surroundings, and almost immediately, he perked up. "Oh, look at that. It's Kominato Haruichi from my class. Is he eating alone?"

Two looked down to see a small boy chewing on something nearby the vending machines. "What's it matter to you?"

"He had an interesting sound, that's all," said Eighteen. Having finished his juice – which was indeed, carrot juice – Eighteen crumpled up the carton. Pulling his arm back, he tossed it forward over the railing, and a few seconds later, they both watched as it landed bulls-eye in the center of a garbage bin.

"Just remember not to get too involved," said Two lightly.

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

><p>Given that Eighteen's eyes were still quite firmly located at the front of his face, rather than the sides, he did not possess the nearly 360 degree field of vision of an eagle. However, he was able to see three times farther than an average human, and could make out the individual threads of someone's shirt from a city block away. He had superior color vision, seeing a wider spectrum of colors more vividly and in higher clarity than was natural. He was also synaesthesic, 'hearing' colors from sounds.<p>

Eighteen said that people's voices had a dominant color, with threads of other complementary colors weaved throughout. Apparently, Two sounded like both blue and red – an uncommon mix.

Two on the other hand, had a type of eidetic memory. He didn't consider it a particularly useful ability, as it was mostly limited to his own personal experiences. He could recall with pinpoint clarity events that had occurred within his vicinity five, ten years ago. Like all of the others who had undergone experimentation at the Settlement, he had exceptional general memory capacity. However, they were nowhere near the level of lucidity he could achieve with his own experiences.

His very first lucid memory was from when he was four. He dreamed about it every now and then. He dreamed it again, the night they arrived in Tokyo.

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><p>It was an early summer evening, judging from the humidity on his skin, the position of the sun in the sky, and the resounding buzzing of unseen cicadas. He sat by himself on a swing in an otherwise empty playground, looking at a nearby patch of grass. A few minutes observation revealed that there were 24,032 blades of grass.<p>

The chains of the swing were old and rusting, but his younger self, sniffling uncontrollably, never seemed to notice or care. On the contrary, he clutched tightly onto them as if they were all that kept him grounded.

His younger self was overwhelmingly and mindlessly upset in the way small children could get, but he could only catch vague flashes of why he was that way. It had to do with his father, he knew. He didn't remember having a mother, which probably meant that she had either died or left when he was an infant. And the vague flashes of his father hinted that he had probably been neglected.

Two surmised that his younger self had been upset and angry about his father, which was why he ended up kicking his heels against the dirt that summer evening.

Soon, as it always did, a sleek black limousine slid into the playground, the hard, crumbly dirt crackling below its wheels. The door opened, and a heeled foot stepped out, followed by a young, graceful woman of curiously nondescript features.

She carefully stepped closer to his younger self, who, with tears staining his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose, regarded her questioningly. She reached out with a finely manicured hand. Her nails flashed red in the sunlight, and she tipped his chin up. Her touch was cold, like ice, on his skin.

For some reason, even in Two's lucid memory, the woman's mouth moved but he could never make out what she was saying. However, after a few minutes, he willingly took her hand and followed her into the gaping black maw of the limousine. His heart beat so loudly – averaging 3.333 beats per second – it drowned out the cicadas. He knew that he was leaving this place behind forever. What he didn't know was whether his heart was beating in fear or _excitement_ –

* * *

><p>Two's eyes flashed open with a start. He sat up, feeling cold sweat on his brow and his heart beating at an elevated average of 1.217 beats per second. It was nothing compared to the rapidness in his dream, but children's heartbeats were generally faster than those of adults.<p>

It was dark, and he couldn't make out a single thing without his glasses on. However, he knew he was lying in the bottom bunk in the room he and Eighteen shared, in their 30-tatami apartment. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose.

"You had that nightmare again, didn't you?" Eighteen's voice rang out from the above bunk.

"Yeah," said Two. A second later, he heard some shuffling, and then a thumping sound as Eighteen jumped down. Another second later, he felt the cool touch of his glasses sliding onto his face. At the very least, he could make out the shadowy outline of Eighteen now. "Thanks."

Without responding, Eighteen crept closer. There was a creak as the mattress sank under his added weight, and then he was sitting on top of Two, straddling his legs. He leaned forward, his thinner frame pressing down on Two's chest.

"You up for it tonight?" Eighteen said in a low voice by his ear.

"Yeah."

The pressure lessened as Eighteen pulled himself back up. He shuffled further down, pushing Two's legs outwards to make space. Coming to a stop at Two's knees, he bowed his head, and a second later, Two felt something hot and wet flick against his upper thighs – his tongue – before it trailed upward, leaving a heated path across the outside of his boxers. It came to a stop at his crotch and for several seconds, he simply stayed there, his breath coming out warmly over him even through the fabric.

"You could at least look a little more excited that I'm doing this for you," Eighteen's voice rang out sulkily.

Two raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you make me?"

Eighteen muttered something incomprehensible, and unceremoniously yanked down the waistline of his boxers.

For a moment, Two felt himself exposed to a breath of cool air – and then Eighteen, licking his fingers as he would an envelope, began to massage him. His tongue soon followed, flicking at the tip before wrapping itself around the head of his still-flaccid length.

At that, Two let out a small hissing sound, and arched slightly back as, in a stab of heat, blood rushed downward. He could feel himself twitching below and his heartbeat had begun to pick up again – 1.228 beats per second now –

Eighteen, letting out a somewhat muffled sound of satisfaction, took in his entire hardening length with his mouth, and Two stopped keeping track.

* * *

><p>Two had never told anyone, not even Eighteen, that he had willingly left his home and come into the Settlement.<p>

He could remember most of the others in piercing clarity, the way they had all been as children. It had been forbidden, but some of them had used to whisper in hushed tones about the families they had been taken from, clutching at the faint wisps of whatever memories they still had left. Eighteen too, had used to talk about his grandpa. He couldn't remember anything about what he looked like, but he said that he could remember his grandpa holding him up into the air.

All Two could remember, however, before taking the hand of the cold woman, was being alone in an empty house and then an empty playground.

When they finally finished 'delivering' the rest of the twenty and it was just down to the both of them – they had made a pact to leave themselves, the survivors, for last – what would he do?

After all, as he well knew, not all children were loved. Some came into the world all alone and lost, a grain of sand that had fallen out of a cracked hourglass and slipped away into the ocean.

He dreaded the thought of finding his father and confirming the suspicions he had had as a child. He didn't know if he could bear having to add the number '2' to the bracelets they wore around their wrists.

However, there was something he feared even more, and it was a secret that he kept buried deep in the treacherous recesses of his mind: that was, the fear that Eighteen would find his family. If they found them, Two knew for certain that they would be sure to love him, for how could anyone not love Eighteen?

Eighteen would reunite with his family, and Two would lose him.

And that, he knew with unwavering certainty, would kill him.


	4. Festival of the weaver 1

**Festival of the weaver 1**

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><p>The following morning, Eighteen was adjusting the tie of his school uniform when without any warning, he lurched forward. Feeling light-headed, he vainly tried to hold himself up against the wall, but he knew what was happening.<p>

Tendrils of pitch darkness crept in from his peripherals, bleaching his vision black. The sound of Two's voice – at first light, and then concerned – faded away. The rough sensation of the fabric of the tie against his fingers disappeared as well, and then he was floating in nothing, a speck of negligible existence in a vacuum.

Such things happened sometimes. They were the side effects of his time spent in experimentation at the Settlement.

Two's sight had slowly deteriorated over time, and Eighteen repeatedly experienced a blackout of his senses. Left stranded in a groundless world, it was a terrifying experience, one that he had never quite managed to get used to.

Thankfully, it never lasted too long. After what felt like an hour, but had probably only been a few minutes, Eighteen found himself suddenly looking up at the individual grains of the wooden slats of the above bunk bed. He was lying face up in Two's bed. There was a slight, jagged rip in the cotton fabric of the mattress cover poking out through the slats.

He rapidly blinked, his eyes unbearably dry, and tears that had been welled up began to leak out of his tear glands.

"You back?" Two asked. His voice was, as always, a haze of searing red and deep, calm blue.

Eighteen slowly nodded, and wiping his face, he pushed himself up. He said somewhat hoarsely, "Shouldn't you go to school?"

"You feel up for it?"

"Nah…but you should go."

"Alright then." Two got up and slung his schoolbag over his shoulder. "Breakfast's out on the table. Order something for lunch, and I'll make us some gyūdon for dinner."

Eighteen nodded again, and then pouted, "You're only ever this nice when I get my blackouts."

"Wouldn't want you getting any more spoiled than you already are," Two replied with a smirk.

* * *

><p>During their earlier years, they traveled to a diversity of places – mostly places where a pair of teenager boys without any apparent adult guardian wouldn't be questioned – around the world.<p>

They raced each other in the morning on rented verde bikes around the coastline of Seville, before turning in at lunch for tapas at one of the cafes that reeked of cigarette smoke.

New York City, they found, was as big, busy, and crowded as they'd heard, with colorful signs and moving advertisements lining the long city streets and people not really seeing each other as they hurried out of subway stations. The most memorable thing, however, was probably when Two and Eighteen got chased in front of Penn Station by a crazy old woman, who yelled at them to go back to China.

It was during their descent down into the rocky depths of a magma chamber nearby Reykjavik that they learned that Eighteen did not do well in closed spaces.

The locals of Engativa tried to rip them off, charging them ten times the actual amount for an empanada. Two nearly got his cap stolen by a pack of giggling girls who'd apparently never seen an Asian before in their lives.

Some places around Accra were foggy and thick with smoke from burning trash, and other places were wide and open, with clear ocean water that crashed on to a beach of black rocks. One afternoon, they stopped for a bathroom break at one of the local villages, and Eighteen screamed because he found lizards hiding in the dirt holes that substituted for toilets.

There were many other places they had seen, and they knew that there were many, many more that they'd never experienced or even knew of.

Thinking back on it, it had been fun, trekking around the world, leaving bits and pieces of themselves behind at every stop. However, despite all their journeys, Eighteen never did find a place where he stopped and really thought to himself that he wanted to stay there.

* * *

><p>Eighteen was wavering between putting up a poster of Ichiro or Matsui on the bathroom door, when his smartphone vibrated in his pocket. He turned it on to find a short text message from Two with a list of groceries: onions, beef, dashi, and ginger.<p>

_You're not even gonna ask if I'm feeling okay? :(_, he texted back.

_Better run now if you want to make the time sale_,was the reply.

Changing out of his school uniform, Eighteen headed out on foot to the market.

Half an hour later, he was standing in line for the register, whistling a mindless tune, jiggling a foot to the rhythm, and a hard plastic basket dangling from his arm. It was then that in the corners of his eyes, he saw the strange mix of colors that had reminded him of spring the day before. Even in the sea of colors he was always surrounded by, they stuck out as particularly bold – yet, at the same time, liable to shatter at a single wrong touch.

Eighteen perked up and almost immediately, he spotted the small boy with overgrown bangs talking to a woman with two moles on her inner eyelid – she was a gentle, pale green – at the pharmacy counter.

In a single impulsive move, Eighteen stepped out of line. He waded his way through the crowd, and ignoring the voice in his head that reminded him of Two, called out, "Haruichi!"

His back visibly stiffening, the other boy spun around. His head bobbed around for a bit, before finally coming to a rest on Eighteen. "…Sawamura-kun? ...Shouldn't you be at school?"

Haruichi's voice was a swirl of earthy brown, leaf green, raindrop blue, and just the slightest hints of faint flower. It was rare for Eighteen to see so many different shades of color in someone.

"I didn't feel well," he said easily. "What about you?"

Haruichi's head tilted slightly to the side as he presumably glanced back at the counter. "…My mom got sick so I'm taking care of her today."

There were a multitude of inquiring questions that Eighteen could have followed up with. However, knowing that it wasn't any of his business, he shrugged. Then, digging his free hand into the pocket of his pants, he pulled out a pack of Marukawa variety bubblegum.

Of all the places he and Two had visited around the world, he had to say that the food of their homeland, Japan, was what he still liked best. (Japanese-style curry and soba noodles, in particular, were his favorites.)

Ripping the tab open, he plucked out a box of strawberry-flavored gum. He tossed it to Haruichi, who fumbled with it in the air, before managing to catch it. Haruichi silently looked down at his catch, and then back up at Eighteen.

"Here – strawberry for the spring boy," Eighteen grinned, jauntily saluting the other boy.

* * *

><p>Some nights, when Two hadn't made any movements outside of those of natural sleep in a while and Eighteen was thinking terrible thoughts, he slipped out to the balcony.<p>

Wherever they went, that was his one preference: whether it was a tiny ski lodge way out in winter country or a tightly-packed apartment at the center of Tokyo, it had to have a balcony.

Eighteen went out and stood there, taking in the stars, the changing sky, the earth or concrete below, the life everywhere that continued to exist regardless of whether he was there to look at it or not. Then, he felt his breathing slow down, and took in a deep, rattling breath.

He needed to be reminded of it frequently – but how fortunate he was, to be able to see and hear and be alive.


	5. Meeting spring 2

**Meeting spring 2**

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><p>There was a <em>butsudan<em>, an altar, in their home for his older brother. In the early still hours of every morning, before heading out for school, Haruichi lit an incense stick, dinged the sounding bowl, and then put his hands together to pray.

* * *

><p>When he was younger, there was a group of other boys around his age in the neighborhood, who, in the summer, raced each other on bikes in dizzying laps around the playground and slapped mosquitoes on each other's arms as they licked at popsicles. In the winter, they had such prolonged and furious snowball fights that by the end of it, their own mothers couldn't have distinguished between each approximately boy-sized blob of white.<p>

Haruichi always wanted to join in, but with memories of being bullied still fresh on his mind, he was never able to do anything more than watch from the safety of his room window. Some nights, as he lay in bed thinking about everything he wished he had done that day, he hated himself.

One afternoon, Haruichi was clinging on to the fence around the local baseball field, watching as a bunch of the neighborhood boys gathered together for a scrimmage, when he was recognized by one of the adults – his father's golfing friend – and pushed to join the game.

The other boys all seemed to know each other well, and were jostling one another when he shyly joined them. Soon, one by one, the two designated captains began to pick – amidst shouting and groaning – the players for their team.

At first, as he waited to be called, Haruichi bounced on his tiptoes, trying to see who'd gotten on which team, his heart beating faster every time he felt a captain's eye brush past.

However, gradually, the crowd of boys standing around Haruichi diminished one by one, and when he suddenly realized that there were more boys with a team than without, he felt a lump rise in the back of his throat. With each call that wasn't for him, his excitement faded away. When there were only a few boys left, his palms started to sweat and his feet grew heavy.

Finally, he found that there had been an odd number of them in total. He was standing alone, his sweating hands wearing out the ends of his shirt.

He thought he could feel the pitying eyes of everyone else in the field on him, and he felt the tips of his ears grow hot with embarrassment.

For an awkward moment, the two captains glanced at each other, neither wanting to take such a small boy on the team. As Haruichi silently waited, he thought he could hear some of the neighborhood boys who'd used to bully him snicker, and his eyes began to burn. He dug his nails painfully into his palms and bit into the insides of his cheeks, fighting the urge to cry.

Finally, after one of the parents nudged their son meaningfully, Haruichi heard his name being called, and he stumbled forward.

He had one at-bat in that game. As he came up to the plate, it was mostly silent except for the polite scattered cheering of kind parents. His eyes grew so thick and hot with tears then, that he struck out swinging.

After the game that he thought would never end reached its conclusion, Haruichi ran straight back home.

"Haruichi-kun!" his mother called out when he came in through the front door. "Are you hungry?"

He took a deep breath, and then another one to be sure. "No, mom."

His voice didn't shake, to his relief, but he feared that his mother would come out with a concerned look and ask if anything was wrong.

He hoped.

However, instead, laughter rang out from the kitchen as his mother resumed a phone call.

Haruichi slowly walked up the stairs to his room, and he realized then that no one, not even his parents, could ever know and understand how he felt, for they were fundamentally people separate from himself. Once in his room, he crept into bed.

The memory of that day faded over time, as did all memories, but the knowledge that he was the only person in the whole wide world who knew that he had cried himself to sleep, never quite left him.

* * *

><p>Barely two weeks into the spring semester, Haruichi was coming back from the vending machines when, at the back of the school building, he found himself being stopped by a group of three delinquent-like boys sharing a single cigarette between them.<p>

"Hey – Kominato," said a boy with bleached hair that he didn't recognize. "You're Kominato from my class, aren't ya? Kominato something."

Haruichi came to a hesitant stop. "Yes?"

"The thing is, we're really thirsty…" A lanky boy wearing a hoodie under his school jacket, blew out a ring of smoke before passing the cigarette to his friend. "And none of us have our wallets."

Haruichi felt his face go blank. Immediately, in one practiced motion, he swiveled on his foot to turn around and walk out in the opposite direction. However, before he could get very far, he felt a hand grab his elbow in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Whoa, whoa, where do you think you're going?" It was the boy with bleached hair again. "C'mon bro, we're all friends here. No need to be scared off, we're not here to hurt ya."

Haruichi, his jaw set, tried to pull his arm free, but failed. Letting out a barking laugh, the boy with bleached hair held back his other arm as well. Sauntering over, the lanky boy began to pat down Haruichi's pockets, searching for his wallet.

"Let the kid go, man." Still puffing at the cigarette, the third boy's features were sharp and his hair was gelled up. Haruichi was wondering if he was the decent one of the trio, when the boy jerked a thumb up at an open window in the school building. "There's someone watching. What if he calls a teacher?"

The other two boys and Haruichi simultaneously looked up, to see a boy with messy brown hair and amber eyes staring down at them from the second floor.

When their eyes met, the other boy sucked at the straw from a juice carton, and then raised a hand in salutation like the way he had the day before, when they'd run into each other at the market store.

"Ahoy there," called out Sawamura. "What're you guys up to?"

"Mind your own business," snarled the lanky boy.

"Don't tell me...is this what they call 'bullying'?" Looking genuinely curious, Sawamura cocked his head to the side.

"Wha?" The boy with bleached hair let go of one of Haruichi's arms, and draped an arm around his shoulder. Haruichi felt himself automatically stiffen and shrink back. "You think we're bullying him? Nah man…nah, we're buddies. Reeally good buddies. Right, Kominato? Aren't we having fun?"

Haruichi could feel Sawamura's eyes burning into him. He looked down, thinking he would rather lose some money buying a couple of stupid guys their drinks, than meet those eyes. "Yeah. Sure."

"Fun?" Sawamura's tone picked up. "Then can I join in too?"

At that, Haruichi felt his eyes widen, and his head jerked up – but without waiting for a response, letting out an exhilarated whoop, Sawamura had already thrown himself out the window. With twin yelps, the two boys holding his arms instinctively let go and dove out of the way.

Haruichi, on the other hand, couldn't move. He stood still, transfixed in the tumultuous chaos of flapping jackets and ties, billowing pants and shirts. He wondered for a blinding, heart-stopping moment whether he was about to witness a tragic death.

However, before the thought had even finished flashing across his mind, there was a light thumping sound, and then he felt a warm hand grab him by the wrist. It pulled at him and his body twisted around as, unbidden, his legs began to pump themselves furiously across the concrete ground.

Then, they were both running. Running, with no goal in sight.


	6. Cicadas at dusk 2

**Cicadas at dusk 2**

* * *

><p>Cicadas lived underground in an immature form for most of their lives, and depending on the species, spent up to seventeen years below the surface. When they finally emerged in the summertime, they shed their skins and emerged as adults. They lived only long enough to attract a mate with their song and lay eggs, before dying.<p>

From a healthy distance, Two was observing a particularly fat cicada that had perched itself on the bark of a tree near the school gate, when Eighteen dashed in, pulling a small boy along.

Two straightened up and crossed his arms across his chest. "You must be joking."

Eighteen had at least the grace to look a little guilty. "This is Haruichi. Kominato Haruichi. Remember?" He smiled down at the other boy. "Meet my…friend, Miyuki Kazuya."

Two thought he could feel a headache coming on – and it wasn't the induced kind he usually experienced. "What're you doing?"

"Saving him from his friends Kanemaru Shinji from class 2-B and Higasa Shōji and Kuramochi Yōichi from class 2-A," said Eighteen, mockingly saluting back with two fingers raised to his forehead.

At that, Kominato suddenly began to tug at his wrist. Eighteen easily let go.

"Thanks for your help, but you didn't need to," he said rather coldly, his hands curling into fists by his side. "I can take care of myself."

"You're welcome," Eighteen answered, unperturbed, and they watched as Kominato walked stiffly away.

After a moment, Two turned disinterestedly away – but just then, there was a strong gust of wind and a brief movement at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. He turned back in time to see Kominato raise a hand to shield his face. The wind had swept part of his bangs back, and Two caught a glimpse of a pair of fierce eyes, before they were hidden from view by his hand.

Two felt something like recognition twinge at the back of his head, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Before he could think any further on it, however, he heard Eighteen let out a snigger – and turned around to see the other boy picking up the cicada between his fingers.

A mischievous grin tugging at the edges of his mouth, Eighteen dangled the insect out in front of his face. From this decidedly unhealthy distance, even Two could make out the veins in the cicada's transparent wings. (The veins split each wing into fifteen discernible compartments.)

Two swallowed hard. He took a step back. "You wouldn't."

Eighteen took a step closer, his eyes glowing almost maniacally. "I would."

* * *

><p>They were ten when they escaped the Settlement, and for three long, hard years, they were forced to learn how to survive in the outside world on their own.<p>

By the time they were thirteen, however – thanks in large part to Two's talent for finding numerical patterns in the stock market – they were financially secure and had access to a multitude of false identities. And by then, they had learned what it meant to hate and what it meant to be angry.

They directed this newfound source of strength against the powers that had stripped them of their human rights at an age when they'd barely been sentient. They became an uncontrollable forest fire, determined to burn up anything in their path.

The target of their first choice was the assistant director of the program. It was not a difficult task to track the man down, for they both remembered him well. Back then, they only addressed him as the 'Director,' as he was the overseer of many of their cognition tests. If any of them ever got tired of completing thousand-piece white puzzles and looked up, they would see his apathetic face bearing down at them through the looking glass, his hand stroking the tiny patch of hair at the tip of his chin.

His name, they found out, was Ochiai Hiromitsu, and in the real world, he had once been a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare.

After the project was deemed a failure however, and the Settlement burned down, Ochiai had been demoted to a mere desk job in the environmental department. He lived now in an apartment block in the outskirts of Hiroshima.

It was a simple matter of learning the schedules of he and his family. One late afternoon in the fall, when his wife and daughter were out shopping, Two and Eighteen easily disarmed the security system and entered the apartment.

Kneeling on a mat, Ochiai was drinking tea and watching the news when they stepped into the room. At the sound of their footsteps, he looked up at them. His mouth opened – he had still kept his beard – and for a moment, his eyes shot back and forth in confusion between them. They pulled off their ski masks and waited, and suddenly, as if a light bulb had turned on, recognition filled his features.

The lines of his mouth straightened. "I thought I'd see you two again one day." He took a final, leisurely sip of his tea, draining the cup. He picked up the remote and turned off the TV. In the ensuing unnatural silence, he closed his eyes.

Neither of them spoke. Two stepped forward, pushing the blade of the box cutter up with a thumb.

_Click click click._

He pressed the sharp edge to Ochiai's neck, and as a thin line of red appeared on the flesh, he felt the man tremble. Two did not hesitate. Without any preamble, he raised it for momentum, and would have stabbed and killed his target – if Eighteen's hand hadn't suddenly shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"What are you doing?" said Two. He wasn't afraid, at least he didn't think so, but the box cutter shook in his hand.

Eighteen's jaw was set. "Let me do it. Or else you'll have nightmares about it."

"And you won't?"

"Not as clearly as you do." Eighteen grasped the edge of the box cutter, and Two felt his fingers let go.

Ochiai, with his eyes still shut, suddenly spoke up in a hoarse voice. "I know that I deserve this, in some way. However, I hope for your sakes, that you will be able to live with yourselves knowing that you killed a father and a husband today."

Eighteen stiffened, and Two knew that he had been affected. Eighteen's knuckles were white and his pupils dilated as he raised the box cutter. Then he brought it down, the metal gleaming in the dusky sunlight that filled the room and –

* * *

><p>Two woke up with a start.<p>

It was dark and silent, and he couldn't see anything again. For a while, he stayed still in his upright position, counting the beating of his heart as he waited for it to slow down.

1.230 beats per second… 1.189 beats per second…

Once it had reached acceptable levels, Two clambered to his feet and felt his way in the dark to his desk. Shoving his glasses on, he looked up.

Eighteen wasn't in his bunk – which meant that he was outside on the balcony. This wasn't the first time Two had woken up to find the bunk bed above his empty. Eighteen was easy-going about most things, but the one thing he always insisted on, to the point of being pigheaded, was that the place they were living in had a balcony.

"Otherwise, I feel closed in," he complained once, when Two asked. "I don't like small spaces. Remember Reykjavik?"

Two did remember, and he stopped asking after that.

Sometimes, Two just went back to sleep, letting Eighteen have his privacy. Tonight, however he didn't want to go back to bed alone.

He stepped out of their room and into the lounge. From there, he could see the glass sliding door that lead to the balcony, and sure enough, he could make out the shape of a lone figure standing outside.

When Two slid the door open, Eighteen didn't turn around. With his arms folded across the top of the railing, he continued to stare out at the open night. Stepping forward to stand just behind Eighteen, Two rested his chin on the smaller boy's head.

"Had another nightmare?" said Eighteen lightly.

Two leaned down and nuzzled his neck. "Nah." He could feel himself growing hard against Eighteen's back, tenting the front of his boxers. "You up for it tonight?"

"Okay."

"Can I put it in?"

Eighteen let out a half-irritated, half-amused sigh. "Fine."


End file.
